


Riveting

by A_Vexing_Hex



Category: BioShock
Genre: Atlas is Fontaine, Dacryphilia, EXCEPT WHEN IT IS, Fontaine is Atlas, I'm being polite, M/M, Torture, and I took it a little too literally, blond!Atlas, jacklas, nonconsensual blowjobs, shimmies into the sunset, someone said something about nailing someone to a table, violence is not the answer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-20
Updated: 2014-02-20
Packaged: 2018-01-13 04:02:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1211965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Vexing_Hex/pseuds/A_Vexing_Hex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes the works of your own hands take you to places you've always wanted to go. Sometimes it's where's been intended for you. Sometimes it hurts. Sometimes you bleed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Riveting

**Author's Note:**

> Hi. I did a thing.

**Riveted**

 

Fate was a fucking awful thing.

The concept of it, really, was inherently flawed. Some two-bit matchmaker in the sky decided that you're supposed to be for something, that you're destined to take a specific bullet, or swallow a specific poison. The entire idea was bullshit, and yet the blond man couldn't help but wonder, as his cigarette drooped from his lips and his breathing thickened--

Maybe destiny was better carved out by his own hands. Man's hands. Would Andrew-Fuckity-Ryan be proud?

After all, he'd forged a fate for the pathetic creature on its knees before him, lapping over his cock like it was what he was made to do. Not that he was. That was a mere coincidence. Still didn't change the fact that he'd been hand-crafted for infiltration and murder. No, no…the cock-sucking was just a bonus.

Jack was so eager to please. Atlas knew he wouldn't recall this particular instance later…there was some sort of defense mechanism in place that translated their meetings over to repressed memories. The kid didn't remember his face until presented with it again. And when they collided, the look of fear in his eyes…well, that was almost as satisfying as the sex, as the sweat and blood and screams they'd shared.

Bemusedly, the "Irishman" wondered if the little scars and wounds he found mysteriously upon his body the next day scared him.

No, he knew they did.

He'd watched him wake before, after all, and look with terror over the scratches and cigarette burn marks that littered his pale torso.

He'd wake up with a sore throat tomorrow, likely, he thought with a smirk, as he buried his hand in Jack's brunette hair, lightly flaked with soot from an earlier encounter with a Big Daddy and a bit of Incinerate.

With that grip, he dragged his sizeable dick into his throat, and sighed. "There's a lad. Look at you, boyo, drinking cock down like a old pro." Jack's choked sob in response made him laugh, and he brought him back, noted the tear that streaked his teeth, and clicked his tongue. "Or maybe not." 

Jack struggled a bit. Squirmed slightly, but Atlas knew he wouldn't pull away. Couldn't, really. It was part of the charm.

The blond glanced to the side of where he stood. It was an old residence--boarded up now. At least, they had been in the process of boarding it up. There was a table, covered in two-by-fours, littered with nails, a hammer resting on the floor.

Somewhere between rubbing that tear from the freak's cheek, licking it away off of his thumb, and then pinching Jack's nose to force that thick organ into his mouth again…a disgusting little idea wormed its way into Atlas's brain. It gestated and grew as he fucked his mouth, gripped the back of his neck and made him choke and gag, caused spittle to drip down a strong chin and moisten the neckline of that filthy, blood-stained sweater.

He wanted nothing more than to pin the boy down and **_ruin_** him. Atlas would finish in Jack tonight. He knew that much. He'd leave the kid to wake from his nightmares with his body marked and slick from his spending. But just laying him down and taking him wouldn't be enough. It never was. So he surveyed the materials available, and--

Hammer and nail and a boy with no will of his own. What was a gent to do?

The great figurehead of a revolution allowed a smirk to cross his lips that was as lewd as it was completely insane. No other had witnessed such a look. And lucky lucky him: Jack wouldn't remember it. It was a perfect tradeoff.

In fact, Jack was practically shoved away from him, and the boy sat back on his knees, coughing and retching, bile joining spit as he drew his arm over his lips, pulled back from Atlas with wide eyes, but still didn't leave. Couldn't leave. Not without his creator's say-so, oh no. Such a good little fuck, the blond noted, as he waved his hand over to the table.

"I need you stand. And you're gonna walk over there."

Mistrusting eyes regarded him. They were filled with a myriad of things. Doubt, certainly, but there was also a painful willingness that was almost painful to look into. Jack coughed a few times, then murmured the one word Atlas hardly ever expected out of him. The brunette shuddered, and stood, but asked a quiet, "Why?"

Oh, that made him frown. That caused the Irishman a bit of grief. You put a certain amount of money into a product, and you expect it to be a bit more…polished. Perhaps he should have turned the screws on Suchong harder. Ah, well. He'd turn them just as much on the mutant babe. If not just a bit more.

"Ah, well…just a bit of personal preference. Arranging the **_furniture_**." Atlas murmured, with the heat of his discontent mingling into, stewing with his arousal. Still, he was completely hard. Nothing about a bit of questioning was about to rip that away from him. "But…would you kindly pick up that hammer, and one of those shiny nails…and nail your pretty palm to that table there?"

The initial click of the mental conditioning was always interesting to observe. A blankness in those deep eyes, followed by the processing of the task at hand. Jack seemed to clearly know what he was about, what was going to happen--but had no way of preventing it. Atlas's sadism picked up on that contained, dug heels into it, and rode it hard into his eventual climax. For the moment, though, he watched with a contained expression, arms crossed over his chest, sleeves rolled to his elbows, with a perfectly clinical expression that didn't seem to voice to the fact that his sex was still out, completely engorged, still slick with spit and bile from the boy's sweet mouth.

It was with that completely sterile expression--but with burning, vicious blue eyes--that he watched Jack collect the hammer. Watched him choose a nail. The illusion of choice in the presence of fate.

Watched as he set his hand, palm up on the table, leaning over his work.

Watched as he struggled to set the nail up properly with only one hand.

An amused look crossed the blond's face, and he reached over, holding that nail for him. "Go on, boyo. Drive it home. Let it go."

His palm might have brushed against his own sex with those words. Might have touched himself at the precognitive thought of the screams he was about to be rewarded with.

There wasn't any disappointment to be had.

They echoed off of the walls, those cries, as Jack dropped the hammer back on the table, the way he pulled against the nail itself. He had no doubt that the boy would simply pull his hand away, wrench it off of the nail if he let him--so Atlas flicked his cigarette away, reached down and clamped his hand tight over the wrist on the table, and kissed the bastard, caught his screams and swallowed them down as blood began to pool beneath his hand, to seep into the worn grain of wood that rested beneath them. For once, the Irishman enjoyed the resistance he was met with, the way that Jack tried to bite him. Sweet little fuck he was, after all, that it was nice to see that the inherent violence, the piss and vinegar they'd programmed into him hadn't gone to waste. However…it had to come to and end, and end it did, as Atlas dug his teeth tight into the brunette's top lip, ripped skin open, and shoved Jack back onto the table, laid him flat on his back. His head rested just next to his hand, and the blood mixed with the strands of his tousled, dirty hair, making them a morbid sort of auburn. 

He left Jack spitting copper, desperate for air, gasping for breath, which flecked Atlas's cheek with expelled blood. Not that he noticed. His hands were too busy trying to draw away the young man's slacks, his ears finely-tuned to the sound of what was probably the carpals in Jack's hand grating against the metal now impaled in him.

"A-Atlas, for fuck's sake…!!" The sobs were broken by a few pained words, a protesting hand that tried to push him away, a foot clad in a beaten loafer against his handler's chest.

Atlas could only give a (mildly annoyed) sympathetic look, completely manufactured for the sake of his facade. The demented glow in his eye wouldn't dissipate as he swatted that hand away, wrenched his leg aside. In fact, it grew as he took up the hammer, another nail, as he forced his other wrist down to the table above his head…

It was an asymmetrical crucifixion. Crude, at best. But there was something special about the kid, something disgusting about how hard his cock was when Atlas pulled his filthy slacks away. He knew this pleased the Irishman **_that_** much, and his body responded in kind, wanting to be pleased in turn. Selfish little fucking bastard…he'd get his.

A few trails of crimson now ran to the floor, and screams were renewed with the second nail. Perfect imagery and soundtrack for the finale to this ugly, necessary scene.

As he passed a bottle from his pocket into his hand, feverishly lubricated himself, prepped himself for the tight heat of Jack's body, his mind raced with thoughts. 

Blood and sweat coated them both. Blood and sweat had gotten him here. Perhaps, in a Greek tragedy's manner, they'd found the perfect archetype to mock Andrew Ryan's dream, nailed to a table in a messy reenactment of the crucifixion of what could become a mighty savior. The American dream, disassembled and maimed, a fevered nightmare fucked into oblivion. The sweat of one's brow soaked into a rag and forced down the throat of the willing.

God bless Rapture.

Atlas let a snarl fly as he sank into him, as he pulled on his wrists to tear into those flexor muscles, to further increase the agony. Seldom did he ever let any form of feral desire become him, but now he needed it. It had surpassed a want.

For his part, Jack let loose every scream and gutteral cry he could possibly want, tangled with curses, his head knocking against the table now and then when his body arched and rose away, legs still thrashing on instinct, though he was clearly focused on Atlas now, eyes glassy and staring. Centered.

Riveted.

He screamed as one of the thick nails ripped through muscle and dislodged bone, but still, he gripped him within his body, held him within his heat--

Atlas gripped his throat, held him down by it. He dug the knuckles of his free hand just below his ribs, and finished, bred him, drank in those last few choked cries. Every movement of that toned form beneath him became one of acceptance in those moments. And as he climaxed…the Irishman laughed. He laughed at the utter joke of it all, at the perfect display, laughed in utterly depraved tones that bordered upon his own psychosis. 

The rhythm slowed, and he stared at the boy beneath him, swept a hand back through his hair to put it back in some semblance of order. Not Jack, though. He wouldn't clean that up. Preferred him a mess. No, he remained within him, as he gave him his hand back with a wrench of the hammer, pulling out the nail, leaning over him, pressing down on his chest with that particular metal implement as he gave his final command for the evening. "Would you kindly finish yourself off, mm?"

And he did, pained and bleeding, muscles twitching. The brunette grasped his own sex and took it in his hand…he stroked it once, twice, and on the third movement sobbed. He came weakly, over the threads of his sweater, coated in his own blood, which mingled with those fluids as his thighs quaked.

The entire time he watched, Atlas flicked out a new cigarette, and lit it. Removed himself from that body. He could have left them there, and let him claw his way off of the table, but…He **_had_** been good. How he resented that fact…

So the Irishman pried the other nail from his hand, and patted his cheek, left a trail of bloody fingermarks in the wake of them as he slipped himself back into his slacks. 

Back to the radio waves he'd go. Back to a figment in little Jack Wynand's imagination, when really the freak was only a figment of his own.

But he'd find him again, when he'd finished the tasks he'd laid out for him. Oh, he would find him, and he would reap his reward soon enough. At least…Atlas would. The dog would remain trodden underfoot.

But that was fate, and fate was a fucking joke, wasn't it?

One worth a laugh.


End file.
